


Not Just One Time

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Banter, Concussions, Established Relationship, Finn Saves The Day, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6778018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, Poe thinks, allowing himself to get arrested on a nominally independent planet that has an extradition treaty with the First Order might not have been the best move he’s ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Just One Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Door](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Door/gifts).



> Written for the [Ridiculous Sentence prompt](http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/108022477839/ridiculous-sentence-prompts) _"I can’t believe I’m sitting in space jail with you of all people"_ , although the only part of the prompt that actually made it into the story is 'space jail'.

When Poe wakes up, everything hurts.

He doesn’t know where he is. He can’t remember whether he fell asleep or lost consciousness, which is a bad sign regardless of the answer. He breathes through the pain and tries to think.

He vaguely remembers having a bad feeling about the meeting beforehand, and being proven right not long after. There had been some sort of altercation; the altercation had escalated big time; he’d managed to shoo BB-8 away, but failed to make it out himself before the peace officers arrived.

He remembers getting the shit kicked out of him—vividly remembers neither the peace officers nor the supposed Resistance supporters living up to their names during any of this—and then being transported here and rushed through the booking process. Remembers all auditory input getting distorted by the ringing in his ears, a skull-crushing headache turning the world into a confusing blur.

He also remembers getting shoved around and managing to pull himself together just long enough to come up with a suitably snide remark. _Thanks a lot, past self_. He runs his tongue along his teeth, tasting blood. _Clearly worth the effort_.

Still, it could’ve been worse, Poe reflects after taking in his surroundings as much as he can without moving his head. At least he’s not strapped to an interrogation chair, receiving a half-assed beating as a precursor to a far more imaginative form of torture. This is just an ordinary jail cell, cold and dark with a bed and a toilet and everything. The toilet smells, and the bed is more like a wall-mounted sheet of steel without a mattress, but he supposes his luck could only stretch so far.

The upside is he’s not in the clutches of the First Order yet.

The downside is the _yet_ in that sentence.

“Don’t get caught,” the General had told him before he’d left on this mission. “Whatever happens, don’t get caught. You know the drill. If you get caught you’re on your own.”

Yeah, Poe knows the drill, all right.

In hindsight, he thinks, allowing himself to get arrested on a nominally independent planet that has an extradition treaty with the First Order might not have been the best move he’s ever made.

But, again: not the worst either, so there’s that.

He tries to inventory his injuries. He’s more or less fine when he holds still—and hey, at least they’d had the good grace to dump him on the bed instead of on the concrete floor—but moving hurts, a lot. So does breathing, actually. Hell, even just thinking hurts. His vision swims when he shifts his eyes, and his thoughts seem to refuse to slot together properly. It’s like they’re coming to him over a static-filled commline in jumbled, unpredictable bursts.

Another concussion, then. And probably a few busted ribs too.

Dr. Kalonia is going to want to have words with him if he makes it out of this alive.

First things first, though. He’s got no idea how long he’s been in here. Could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours. And surely his captors had wasted no time letting the First Order know they had a member of the Resistance in custody. There’s a good chance an envoy is on its way already.

A very good chance.

Motionless as he is, Poe can feel every beat of his heart against his battered ribcage. He’s only taking quick, shallow breaths; even so, each one makes the pain in his sides flare up and balloon out, nausea stirring low in his stomach whenever he inhales too deeply. It’s… it’s not an ideal set of circumstances, that’s for sure. He clenches his hands to fists, but all _that_ does is alert him to the fact that he’s got at least one cracked knuckle.

Ridiculously enough, he has to stifle a laugh. This whole situation just keeps getting better.

He holds still and waits for his heart rate to slow down. That’s all he can do for now, he guesses—hold still and wait. Preserve his strength, or what’s left of it anyway. Work out a plan to escape if he can get his brain to cooperate.

 

An indeterminable amount of time later, the cell doors open.

Poe’s drifting mind snaps back to alertness. He flinches at the unexpected noise, inwardly cursing himself when a bolt of pain incapacitates him for a few seconds. But then, maybe the momentary incapacity isn’t due to the pain as much as it is due to the shock of seeing the silhouette of someone in a First Order command uniform in the doorway.

He’d known, of course he’d known they would come for him. But he hadn’t expected them to send a fucking _lieutenant_ to pick him up.

Which can only mean one thing.

They’ve already figured out who he is.

Fuck. They definitely won’t be taking any chances with him, then. No lapses of attention he will be able to use to his advantage. There’s no way they’re going to let Poe make it out of this situation a second time. Unless maybe Finn has a hot brother in the First Order he’d neglected to tell Poe about.

Finn. Better not think about Finn right now. He should be focusing on finding a way out of this. They’re going to need to walk him to their ship, aren’t they; he’ll have to make a break for it then. Probably get shot in the back, but anything would better than—

“Is he conscious?” a familiar voice says. And then, in a cold, clipped tone, “The Supreme Leader will _not_ be happy to hear you’ve been brutalizing his prisoners in his stead.”

“Oh, I’m peachy,” Poe says around the lump in his throat. “The Supreme Leader can relax.” He pushes himself up onto one hand. The pain has him breaking out in sweat, almost makes him fold in on himself, but he forces himself not to. He tries to force himself to look up, meet the lieutenant’s eyes.

The lieutenant makes a quiet, choked-off sound.

A very familiar sound.

That’s—

Poe looks up.

It’s Finn.

Finn is the one in the lieutenant uniform, wearing the silly hat and everything. The wave of relief that hits Poe is so strong it makes him feel dizzy all over again.

The officers flanking Finn come into the cell to pull Poe to his feet. They’re unnecessarily rough about it, but Poe sets his jaw and refuses to pass out because Finn, Finn is here, Finn is—somehow, improbably—here to save him, _again_ , and the least Poe could do is mentally stick around for the proceedings.

Finn steps up to him, cupping Poe’s chin and tilting his head up. Their eyes meet, and Poe hazards a wink. Finn’s face stays admirably impassive, but one of his fingers shifts against Poe’s skin in an imperceptible caress before his hand drops away.

“Much more cooperative now, isn’t he?” one of the officers remarks as they march him down the hallway, back into the room where—Poe’s pretty sure—they processed him before. They push his face down against a desk, because apparently they haven’t manhandled him enough yet.

Poe lets them. _Whatever_ , he thinks spitefully as they jerk his arms behind his back, a groan clawing its way out of his throat despite his best attempts to suppress it. _Just you wait until you see who has the last laugh here._

Finn moves to stand behind him. Heavy handcuffs (also familiar, unfortunately) clang into place around Poe’s wrists. Finn’s hand slides into one of his, squeezing once. Poe squeezes back.

“You gonna need a hand with that, Sir?” one of the officers says, flippantly, as though Poe is a fucking piece of luggage. He feels himself bristle. Finn’s grip on his hand tightens.

“No. My men are waiting for me outside. We’ll take it from here,” Finn says. He sounds eerily calm and authoritative. “The First Order thanks you for your assistance. Trust that you will be rewarded handsomely.”

The way he holds himself, the tone of his voice—it’s absolutely convincing, the whole act. If Poe didn’t know any better he’d believe every word Finn is saying. A feeling like pride wells up in his chest. Pride, and gratitude, and there’s a distinct element of sexual arousal to it as well. Finn is going to be rewarded handsomely for _his_ assistance as soon as Poe’s body stops feeling like it’s been run through a small garbage compactor.

Finn keeps one hand on Poe’s cuffed wrists and the other at the nape of his neck, guiding him outside. Poe keeps his mouth shut and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

“What are you doing here,” he says when they’ve finally made it off the prison grounds and are swallowed by the cover of the night. His tongue stumbles embarrassingly over the words. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t supposed to _be in jail_ either, and yet here we are,” Finn retorts.

“That’s not—” Breathing, walking and talking at the same time is proving to be slightly more difficult than usual. “You know what I mean,” Poe says. “You’re not supposed to _be here_.”

“If it makes you feel any better, this rescue mission was completely one hundred percent unauthorized.”

This information does not make Poe feel any better at all.

There’s a _snick_ as Finn removes the handcuffs. He ducks under Poe’s arm, wrapping his own arm around Poe’s waist to support him. Poe grits his teeth and shudders with the effort of fighting back another groan.

“How are you feeling?” Finn asks in a soft voice.

“I’ll live. Don’t worry. Why didn’t you—” Poe presses his hand to his non-Finn-protected side. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t do anything for the pain. “More people,” he says breathlessly.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your hands on a uniform like this? And Stormtrooper gear is even more difficult to come by. Really should’ve thought of that before I dumped all my shit in the Jakku dessert.”

Poe exhales loudly. He trusts Finn will be able to interpret it as the laugh it’s intended to be.

Finn glances over his shoulder. “Poe, look, could we, I know you’re hurt, and I’m really sorry, but do you think we could move just a little bit faster? I don’t think they suspected anything, but I’m not sure how long…”

In Poe’s defense, he does try. He stumbles right away, would’ve fallen over if it weren’t for Finn stepping in front of him, his other arm coming up around Poe’s shoulders to steady him.

“Okay, whoa, never mind,” Finn is saying. “You’re good. We’re good. Current pace is absolutely fine. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“Sorry,” Poe tells Finn’s chest. Broad, warm chest. Familiar, and very comfortable. He draws himself up into a more-or-less upright position again. The world circles around him, and his stomach threatens to heave.

“It’s not your fault,” Finn says sternly.

They appear to be moving again. Slowly, but steadily. “It was a setup,” Poe says after swallowing a few times. “I should’ve—”

“It’s not your fault. This whole mission was a gamble to begin with. Honestly, we never should’ve sent you in on your own.”

“Might’ve provoked them,” Poe says. He’s hazy on the details, but he knows that much. “Just a little.” He indicates an inch with his thumb and index finger. “Not on purpose,” he adds, to be clear.

“Okay, so next time you’re on a mission like this, try not to end up in a fight that leads to you getting captured by hostiles. Deal?”

Poe nods. “Deal.”

Nodding was a monumentally bad idea. His head feels like it’s about to split open. He’s very tired. Bile is rising in his throat, blackness creeping into his vision.

“Finn,” he says. His voice sounds strange. Cracked.

“It’s all right, you’re all right,” Finn says soothingly, arms tightening around him. “We’re almost there, look, our ride is right there, okay? We’re almost there. You’ve got to hold on just a little bit longer.”

Poe manages to lift his head. He squints at the lights, the contours of the…

“You stole a _command shuttle?_ ”

“Well, it had to be convincing, right? I couldn’t very well show up in an old Rebel T-65 and claim I was a delegate of Supreme Leader Snoke, here to pick up the prisoner.”

Poe wants to laugh. Or tackle Finn to the ground and kiss him breathless. Give him the best damn blowjob of his life. None of these things seem like achievable goals right about now, except for the lying on the ground part. Maybe later. When walking and talking and breathing stop being so difficult. And then he’ll also ask Finn how the fuck they’d gotten their hands on these props, and how they’d even known that Poe had been in trouble, or where to find him.

Shit. Of course.

“BB,” he says, tugging at Finn’s sleeve. “I don’t know where—”

“We’ve got him,” Finn says. “He’s on the ship. He sent out a distress call. We need to leave behind the ship you took, though.”

Another ship gone. General ain’t gonna be happy about that. “Fuckers,” Poe says.

“Yeah, well,” Finn says, “at least it wasn’t Black One. And at least we got you back. All right, here we are. Easy.”

Poe doesn’t fully realize they’ve arrived at the loading ramp of the shuttle until the ground under his feet suddenly morphs into steel and starts to slant upward. “Whoa,” he says.

From up close, these lights are terribly, inconsiderately bright. Poe loses a pocket of time. One second the ship is stationary and he’s scowling up at the lights, and the next they’re spaceborne and he’s lying on his back on a hard, elevated surface. Finn is dabbing at his hairline with a damp cloth. Their eyes catch, and Finn smiles.

“Hey,” he says, touching his thumb to the edge of Poe’s jaw. It stings. “They really did a number on you, didn’t they?” He strokes Poe’s hair out of his face.

“Did get the intel, though,” Poe says, because no matter what it might look like right now, the mission wasn't a _complete_ fail, thank you very much.

“They told you?” Finn sounds surprised.

“Pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to make it out alive after they told me,” Poe says. His eyes are drifting shut. “What else is new.”

“Don’t fall asleep,” Finn says.

Poe forces his eyes open. He says, unintentionally cranky, “You know, I’ve had a pretty long day.”

“I know. You can rest after you tell me where it hurts.”

“You a medic now?” Poe says, faux-cranky this time.

“I’ve got medical training,” Finn says. “As you well know.”

He says it fondly.

Poe loves him.

“Yeah,” Poe says, resigned. Fuck, these lights are bright. “Got any painkillers for me, Doc?” He puts his arm over his eyes.

“I need to finish examining you first.”

“Right,” Poe says slowly. “I gotta admit, that line really works for me.”

“We can discuss sexual roleplay later. Are you gonna help me out or not?”

“Pain’s localized here,” Poe says, gesturing at his chest and sides. “That’s it, really. They were pretty efficient about it.”

Finn lifts up Poe’s shirt. His hands are soft and gentle. Poe warily holds his breath, but Finn’s touch is so light and careful it’s almost like it’s easing the pain, if anything.

“Okay,” Finn says after very, very cautiously feeling Poe up. “Lots of swelling, definitely some cracks and bruises, but nothing’s broken, I’m pretty sure.”

Poe says, “Yay.”

“Dr. Kalonia’s going to be upset with you, though.”

“Yeah,” Poe says. “Thought as much.”

He lifts his arm. Finn is staring, his eyes warm but his face pinched tight. He’s blurry, and when Poe blinks a few times there are two of him.

“I’m fine,” Poe tells them in an attempt to make their faces relax. “Really.”

“Shouldn’t have sent you in there,” the Finns say.

“Shouldn’t have recklessly swept in to rescue me, more like. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“Hey, this was a smooth and flawless rescue, all right. No one crashed or died.”

“No one died last time,” Poe points out.

“No one crashed or disappeared and was then presumed dead,” the Finns amend.

A third Finn joins the party. Poe, overwhelmed, closes his eyes. “Painkillers?” he says. “Please.”

“Coming right up.”

Then, silence.

“You good, boss?” Bastian yells from behind the cons.

Without opening his eyes, Poe sticks up his thumb. “All good,” he says, even though Bastian won’t be able to hear him over the sounds of the cockpit.

“Got you some water,” Finn says when he returns with an injection pen and, sure enough, a flask of water. Poe squints at it, deliberating. Water sounds like a pretty good idea—a great idea, even. Sitting up, not so much. At this point he’s pretty sure he’d throw up if he tried to move again.

“Thanks, bud. Maybe later,” he says, holding out his arm. Finn takes his hand and pushes his sleeve up past his elbow. The analgesic burns wonderfully in his veins.

“Better?” Finn says after a long moment during which Poe’s eyes have fallen shut again.

Poe nods. “Thank you.”

He glances up at Finn, who is giving him that look again.

“I’m fine,” Poe repeats.

“You’ve got a head wound. And cracked ribs on both sides.”

“I’ll be fine,” Poe says. “My significant other took a lightsaber to the back once, and he was fine.”

“That’s an outlier, not a representative value for comparison.”

The drug is kicking in already, a soft and comfortable haze enveloping Poe’s mind. He hums.

“I should’ve beat up every single one of those assholes,” Finn says, his fingertips ghosting along Poe’s bruised jawline again.

“Might’ve made the rescue a little less smooth and flawless,” Poe mumbles.

Finn grins. “Would’ve been worth it.”

“I just wish I could see the looks on their faces when they realize what happened.”

“Yeah,” Finn says. “The Supreme Leader will definitely not be happy to hear they’ve been releasing his prisoners in his stead.”

Poe laughs. It only hurts a little.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to purge myself of writer's block (we all know the age-old adage "when in writer's block, hurt Poe Dameron"). Fingers crossed it worked. Please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed reading this, and please (PLEASE) feel free to come yell at me about stuff and things [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).
> 
> RE: title--  
>  **coffeeinallcaps** i just realized it's going to need a title. damn.  
>  okay, SAY a person wrote a story that revolves around finn saving poe, again  
> and said person just ran into the quote “I just want one person I can rescue and I want one person who needs me. Who can't live without me. I want to be a hero, but not just one time.”  
> would 'Not Just One Time' work as a title?  
>  **thistlerosie** Sure! I think so.  
>  **coffeeinallcaps** \o/
> 
> Also, a reminder of what sweaty, bloody, confused Poe looks like, in case you'd forgotten (I know, unlikely, but humor me):  
>   
> 


End file.
